“but what if you abort the baby who’ll cure cancer?!” sir the baby who will cure cancer is an organic chemistry major who works at a Home Depot because you use AI to go through your resumes
"I am, somehow, less interested in the weight and convolutions of Einstein’s brain than in the near certainty that people of equal talent have lived and died in cotton fields and sweatshops." - Stephen Jay Gould, The Panda's Thumb: More Reflections in Natural History
This was genuinely what it was like growing up in New Agey circles btw, my mum's friends would come round like "So I went out to the woods this weekend and fasted and meditated and I had a vision of the Sacred Stag and all my guardian angels and I asked them how to find love and they said that I need to focus on my own healing first and stop repeating cycles of the past" and then the very next week it'd be like "So I'm back with James again" girl..... the Sacred Stag could not have been more clear....
another reason why the general public will never be able to see people with extremely stigmatized disorders as people because we don’t get good representation
not my usual post, but something that has been on my mind recently is how people (myself included) with mental illnesses/disorders will never be truly accepted or understood by the general public. especially people with incredibly villainized and stigmatized disorders, like aspd and npd for example. it’s so, so incredibly hard for me to research aspd and npd without seeing posts about how they’re evil or abusive, as if having those disorders makes them inherently bad people. in a lot of cases, these disorders can be genetic or formed from prolonged trauma, but the general public just can’t seem to comprehend that.
i’ve been diagnosed with bpd since i was eighteen or nineteen, but i’ve known since i was sixteen. i was hesitant on putting a label on it for a while because that made it much more real, and i didn’t want people to view me differently based on a diagnosis that i can’t control. i’ve learned to stop caring about what people will think about me if or when they learn about my bpd, but for a lot of people with more stigmatized disorders, that misunderstanding from the world is all they’ll ever know.
it can be suffocating, when someone learns about our disorder(s) and then that’s all they’ll see us as. it’s even more suffocating when we try and mask to seem “normal”. i’ve never been more stressed trying to be seen as normal than just being myself, with all of my “flaws”. we shouldn’t have to force ourselves into a box all to make other people feel comfortable. it just doesn’t feel right; why do we have to fit into a premade societal structure that wasn’t built for us in the first place, all so we can be deemed as “normal” human beings? why can’t the general public force themselves out of their comfort zone to try and understand us?
because that would be too hard for them. it’s easier to ‘other’ people with mental illnesses than to try and learn us, it’s easier to say that people with aspd or npd are “monsters” or “abusers” than to sit down with them and learn who they are, not just as someone with that disorder, but as a person. because at the end of the day, people with these disorders are human, and should be treated as such, but unfortunately that’s just not the case, because a majority of neurotypical people view aspd and npd individuals as less than human.
(side note: i use aspd and npd as examples because of just how stigmatized they are. there are plenty of disorders that are incredibly misunderstood and stigmatized, but i take a specific interest in cluster b disorders, as i have a cluster b disorder myself. but there are aplenty of disorders outside of cluster b that are really stigmatized. though this post is mainly centered around cluster b personality disorders, it can be taken from any perspective and cluster.)
i want to touch on the empathy = morality mindset aplenty of people have, as it pertains to pwaspd in particular. people have come to believe that empathy is a learned trait, except it’s not. it’s something you’re born with, and there are different types of empathy, like emotional, cognitive, and compassionate empathy. i have a mix of cognitive and compassionate empathy; i can understand what someone feels and is going through, and will try and come up with solutions to said problems, unless they only want me to listen. normally, i ask what they want from me, and will act accordingly. but i can’t feel what they’re feeling, that’s just how my brain works.
a majority of the time, pwaspd have little to no empathy, but empathy isn’t needed to be a “good person”, they can still feel sympathy or compassion (i’m going based off of the minimal research i’ve done when reading people’s experiences, so anyone with aspd, feel free to correct me or share your experiences), but they don’t have empathy for other people, or they could have cognitive/compassionate empathy.
but a lot of neurotypicals view empathy as something you’re born with, and as soon as they learn someone else doesn’t have it or doesn’t feel it, their own empathy that they claim to have shuts off for said person completely, because they can’t comprehend that empathy ≠ morality. so they immediately assume that a pwaspd doesn’t have any morals, which makes them believe that they are a “bad” person, when that just isn’t the case at all.
on the topic of bpd, it has been incredibly romanticized. there are a plethora of people who say that they’d be able to handle someone with bpd, that they’d love to have someone who is obsessive, but as soon as they learn about the more negative sides of it, they flip a switch and say we’re crazy, manipulative, abusive. they want the “good” without the “bad”. it’s almost laughable how they switch up immediately after witnessing just how bad it can get.
i know i’m rambling at this point, but i needed to get this out there, though there’s a lot more i could say about this topic. i know you may think that this is a pessimistic way of thinking, that people will come around eventually, but i just don’t think so. i think neurotypicals will never be able to truly understand people with stigmatized disorders, and in a way, i think that’s fine. as much as we crave being understood, as much as we can try and get it through their heads, i don’t think they will ever really understand us, so i think all we can do is find understanding in each other.
anon in my inbox said fanfic writers who wrote about dark and taboo topics were not “real writers” because of what they wrote about.
reblog if you believe anon is wrong and writers are writers, no matter what they write about. no matter how they portray these taboo topics.
reblog if you believe art can be about topics that are controversial, taboo or outright disturbing, and artists who create controversial, taboo or outright disturbing art are as valid as artists who create art of conservative values.
summary: steve reconnects with an old classmate from hawkins high school at a new year’s eve party
warnings: drinking, steve hasn’t completely gotten over nancy, after the events of season four ‘cause i’m pretending season five doesn’t exist, not proofread, no smut but 18+ so mdni
word count: 3.3k
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CHICAGO, 1991
Music floods the makeshift dance floor, booming so loudly it almost shakes the house. Drunk partygoers crowd against each other, dancing their hearts away to whatever pop song that played on the loudspeaker, others are huddled in familiar groups, drinking and talking over the loudness. It was a fun, normal Near Years Eve party in the Windy City. Fun for everyone except Steve Harrington, who was questioning why he decided to come in the first place.
For a distraction, he reminds himself. His shoulders are weighed down, heavy with melancholy, a feeling of loss in place of where his heart should be. Another failed relationship; how many has it been now? Four, maybe five in the past year. Steve has considered that he may not be cut out for relationships, not after Nancy Wheeler.
Nancy. Steve hasn’t spoken to her in years, not since he moved to Chicago; he wonders what she’s been up to. He hears about her from time to time through the grapevine—she’s the top reporter at the New York Post, she’s just debuted her novel, she volunteers at the Child Center of New York. She’s engaged to Jonathan Byers.
Steve can’t help the bitter feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. It's been seven years, he’s told himself, she’s history. What’s done is done. No matter how he reminds himself of this, though, she’s still his every thought. Morning, afternoon, evening, it’s Nancy, Nancy, Nancy, the ghost of her perfume stuck to his shirts, the scent of her shampoo trapped in his pillows. Every thought brings a wave of bittersweet nostalgia, the moments shared being replayed over and over like a broken record.
Even now, mixed in the crowd of drunken partygoers, he's plagued by her. He sees her in the reflection of his punch, from the corner of his eye—ever fleeting, always out of reach. A poignant reminder that no matter how much he misses her, he will never have her again.
Steve frowns, taking a slow sip of his punch as he half-listens to a nearby conversation. A girl brings up Nancy’s novel—he just can’t get away from her, can he? He decides to get more punch, and on his way towards the kitchen, someone shoves past him, spilling what little was left in his red solo cup.
“Hey—!” Steve shouts, whirling his head around to spot whoever shoved him; he misses them, but catches a whiff of vanilla perfume; he nearly doubles over. It’s her perfume, he’d recognize it anywhere. Is she here? There’s no way, why would she be in Chicago? Let alone at a college frat party, of all places.
But he can’t help it; he’s buzzed and she’s already in his head, taunting him. He just needs to know. So, he follows up the stairs, discarding his red solo cup. He doesn’t feel like drinking anymore, not when his stomach is twisting the way it is. Not when his mouth has gone dry as the desert sand and his head is spinning like a spinning top that never stops. Not when Nancy could be here, no matter how incredibly unlikely that may be.
Steve searches the hall, squeezing past couples making out and stepping over the few partygoers that have passed out on the floor. He peeks in rooms, apologizing profusely when he walks in on a few people going at it. After a minute of searching, he’s starting to think it’s futile; how the hell is he supposed to find someone when he has not a damn clue about where they went?
Just as he’s about to head back downstairs, he catches another whiff of that familiar vanilla perfume that makes his heart squeeze painfully, that reminds him of a better, simpler time. He turns his head, a door cracked open to his left. He steps over, nudging his fingers against the wooden surface; it’s a bathroom. He pushes the door open some more and finds someone who is not Nancy. He almost feels disappointed that she isn’t here, until he sees that his mystery person is trying to scrub punch out of their shirt, face scrunched up and agitated.
“Hey, uh—” Steve starts; they startle, head snapping up. His breath is taken away—not only because his mystery person is beautiful, but because they bear a striking similarity to Nancy. Their soft eyes, silky brown hair, pouty lips. The annoyed twitch of their eyebrow.
They let out a breath, shoulders slumping. “Fuck, you scared the hell out of me.” They speak—their voices even sound similar. Steve chuckles awkwardly.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were in here. I was, um,” he swallows around the lump in his throat, “I was looking for a friend.” He’ll be damned if he admits he was searching for his ex in a place she wasn’t at. They don’t question him; good. The less asked, the better.
“You’re okay.” They respond after a moment of scrubbing at their shirt, grumbling under their breath: “what an absolute dick. I can’t believe I wasted my time on him.”
Steve’s curiosity peaks; who are they talking about? Instead of prodding, he asks, “you want help with that?” They look up at him wordlessly, and Steve is about to backtrack when they finally nod. “Please. Thank you, I—” they give a huff of a laugh, “—just, thank you.”
Steve gives a kind smile, stepping further into the bathroom, and they take a step back to give him more room; it’s a surprisingly small bathroom for how big the house is. He opens a random cabinet and to his luck, finds a clean washcloth. He runs it under warm water, then soaps it up. He looks down at them, eyes flicking all over each individual feature of theirs; they really do look alike. Steve clears his throat. He presses the washcloth to their collarbone—they seem to have focused on cleaning everything but their skin. Punch is splattered across the front of their shoulders, sticky and staining the supple flesh red. Lightly, he scrubs it from their skin, working carefully, his touch gentle.
“Glad I chose not to wear white,” they speak, breaking the long silence. “It’d look like I fell face first into a crime scene.” That earns a chuckle from Steve, a smile cracking at his lips. They chuckle, too. “More than I already do, of course.”
“No, you look fine.” Steve says, running the washcloth underneath the water again, then bringing it back to their skin. More silence fills the air between them. He decides to break it. “How’d you manage to get punch all over you, anyway?”
They groan, a frown on their lips. “My jackass ex.” They give no further elaboration; Steve doesn’t push, but he can’t deny his growing curiosity as he dabs the rag over their skin.
“He sounds like an ass.” Steve comments. They huff a laugh, nodding.
“He is an absolute ass.”
A few more minutes pass, and Steve rinses the washcloth under the stream of water before wringing it and setting it on the sink counter. “All right, I think you’re mostly clean.”
“My hero.” They joke lightly, then add, “thank you.” Steve meets their eyes, seeing Nancy in them. Stop thinking about her. He gives them a small, warm smile and a short nod.
“Not a problem, I’m happy to help.” He tells them. For a long moment it’s quiet, Steve flicking over each detail of their face—they're familiar, but he can’t place where he recognizes them from.
“Hey, space cadet,” they call, hand waving in front of his face. Steve blinks, shaking his head with an almost embarrassed huff of a laugh. “Sorry, I just—” he swallows some spit, “—I feel like I know you from somewhere.”
“Ah.” They chuckle, nodding understandably, taking a glance at the ground before looking up at him again. “We went to Hawkins High School together.”
Steve blinks at them—so he does know them. He searches the compartments of his brain, trying his damnedest to figure out who they are. Then he’s hit with a bag of bricks, a knowing ‘ohhh’ leaving his lips. “You were in my gym class.” They grin.
“Cha-ching.” They mimic the ringing of a cash register, shooting finger guns. “I was in your English class, too. You asked if I had an extra pencil one time.”
An awkward silence washes over the two of them. Steve feels a little bad, not recognizing them the first second he saw them; they don’t seem upset that he didn’t, it has been years since high school, after all.
Steve clears his throat, scratching the nape of his neck. Neither of them has broken the silence, only standing there twiddling their thumbs, unsure of how to continue the conversation. Steve breaks it first.
“You... wanna get a drink?” He asks slowly, hesitant, awkward like a freshman talking to his table-neighbor. He’s unsure what has him nervous, he’s never like this around people, especially not around someone as pretty as them. Maybe it’s the fact that Steve cannot for the life of him stop seeing Nancy in their eyes. It’s almost uncanny—you'd think Nancy had a secret twin. There are a few distinct differences, like how the bridge of their nose is raised instead of sloped, their eyes upturned, brows thick and sharp like Brooke Shields’. To any other eye they may look nothing like Nancy; in Steve’s, they may as well be a doppelgänger.
Steve is shaken from his thoughts when they speak an airy, “sure.” He swallows, Adam's apple bobbing, and nods. He offers his hand; they take it in kind. Leading them back down the stairs, they make way to the kitchen, walking past and around partygoers until they’re at the punch bowl.
Steve grabs two red solo cups, passing one to them. They fill their individual cups; Steve bumps his against theirs in a cheers. “What to?” They ask him; he mulls it over before shrugging.
“Being young and dumb.”
They hum, nodding slowly in thought, then a small smile spreads across their face. They clink their cup against his a second time. “To being young and dumb.” Steve smiles too, and simultaneously they take a long drink of punch. Some dribbles down their chin, and Steve thoughtlessly swipes it from their skin. He lingers for a little too long before dropping his hand to his side, sliding it into his jeans pocket. They make not a single comment, only giving him a glance, lips still around the rim of their cup.
They bring their cup down, covering the top with their palm. “So,” they start, “what d’you do for fun?”
Steve sips his punch, looking off to the side then meeting their eyes again. “I dunno, stuff.” They chuckle, nodding. “So specific.” They’re teasing now; he rolls his eyes, a slight smile on his face.
“Okay, smartass.” He mutters, leaning against the counter. “I enjoy music.”
“As does everyone,” they say wryly, “c’mon, gimme the deets. Who d’you listen to?”
Steve huffs a chuckle, shaking his head. “A lot of stuff. The Clash, Madonna, The Police.” He lists, counting them off on his fingers. “How about you, who do you listen to?”
“Madonna’s cool.” They comment. “I like The Smiths. The Cure, too.” They hum, tucking a strand of hair behind their ear. Steve eyes the movement, noticing their nails are painted a pretty wine. He nods after a moment, bringing his gaze back to their own. “Any favorites by them?” He asks. They mull it over, humming lowly.
"Back to the Old House and I Know It’s Over are some of my favorites from The Smiths.” They take a sip of their punch, “Lovesong is a good Cure song, too. Pretty bitchin’.”
Steve recognizes a couple of the songs—they've played on his radio from time to time. “I didn’t know you had good taste in music.” He teases.
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” They joke back, but it’s true. Steve knows little to nothing about them; that’s why you talk to people, though, isn’t it? To get to know them?
“Well, tell me about yourself, then.” He replies, swirling his cup around. “You have any hobbies?”
“I play the guitar.” They reveal; Steve raises a brow. The guitar, huh?
“You any good?”
They shrug. “I don’t know, you’ll have to see for yourself sometime.”
Steve’s eyes widen for barely a millisecond before he schools his expression. He wonders if there’s an implication in their words; the thought vocalizes itself without Steve’s permission, the alcohol taking its toll. “Are you inviting me over?”
Their eyes avoid his, opting to examine the punch in their cup, and he takes their silence as a yes. A small, teasing smile graces his lips, a low hum vibrating in his throat. “Maybe sometime.”
He’s unsure why he’s humoring the idea—he hardly knows them. But they’re offering company; he can't say no to company. It’s better than wallowing alone in his room, staring at his ceiling blankly while rerunning happier memories.
For a small time, they stand together wordlessly, sipping their punch and watching the surrounding people dancing and taking in the moment. It pulls Steve to blurt, “you wanna dance?” They look up at him, lips slightly parted. Then, as if to say, ‘fuck it’, they grab his hand and pull him towards the makeshift dance floor; he follows in suit, letting them drag him along like a dog.
Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This) by Eurythmics comes through on the loudspeaker as the pair reach the dancefloor. Steve notices them looking around, almost nervously—it’s kind of cute, and he can’t help but wonder if they’ve danced in a swarm of people before. He squeezes their hand in his reassuringly, bringing their attention to him.
“Don’t worry about them, just... keep your eyes on me.” He tells them. The hint of a smile ghosts their lips, throat bobbing. They nod their head slowly. “Okay.”
“Good.” Steve says, swaying his shoulders side to side, slow and smooth like a snake in his movements. He feels good; the best he’s felt all night. He forgets all about his shitty breakup, his past love, drinking in the moment. They study him and his movements for a moment before joining him, swaying their hips in time with the music, arms dancing along gracefully. Steve grins.
“There you go,” he hums, unconsciously moving closer. “Just feel the music.”
They chuckle, tangling their hands in his, pulling one forward while the other stayed. He matches their movements, dancing with them, nodding along to the song. He loses part of himself in them, admiring the sway of their hips, the way they move so naturally to the rhythm, like they were made for it.
Someone shouts over the music: “the ball’s dropping in three minutes!” The surrounding partygoers hoot and holler, excited for the new year.
Their dancing becomes slower; Steve notices the hint of a frown pulling at their lips. “What’s wrong?” He asks, movements also slowing. They huff, the sound between a laugh and a sigh.
“I... feel a bit... shitty.” They admit. Steve’s eyebrows furrow, but he nods at them, prompting them to continue. “My ex was supposed to be my New Year’s kiss, but then the jackass dumped me, so...” their sentence fades, eyes averted, looking a little bummed out.
The words leave Steve’s mouth faster than he can think. “Screw him. I’ll be your New Year’s kiss.”
He almost panics when he sees the look of shock on their face, but it fades as quick as it came when they break into a small smile. “Really?”
Steve nods. “Yeah. Really.” There’s a short pause before he asks, “is that okay?”
Their smile grows wider, head nodding slowly. “Yeah. That’s okay.” He smiles back, hand squeezing theirs subconsciously. They squeeze back. Someone shouts that the ball is about to drop, and a chorus of countdowns erupt.
10. Steve’s breathing comes out shallow as they draw nearer to him, taking slow steps.
9. He, too, steps closer, ignoring the harsh pounding in his chest and the blood rushing through his ears.
8. They bring an arm around his shoulders, having to stand on their tiptoes. He runs a hand to the small of their back to keep them balanced, the other rising to cup their cheek.
7. They simultaneously let out a shaky breath; Steve’s eyes flicker down to their lips. He wonders for a moment what they’ll taste like when they kiss.
6. A strand of hair falls in front of their face; he catches it with his thumb and tucks it back behind their ear. “Thank you,” they hum. He can hear the stagger in their voice—they're nervous. He nods slowly, muttering “not a problem” loud enough for them to hear.
5. The surrounding partygoers start to whoop and cheer as the clock ticks nearer. Just four more seconds and it’s the new year.
4. 3. 2. 1...
Their lips lock in a soft, slow kiss as everyone shouts, “Happy New Year!” Steve’s breath is knocked from his chest; cherry chapstick and punch rules his sense of taste. He breathes through his nose, groaning lowly as that familiar vanilla perfume wraps him like a soft, warm blanket. Their mouths move against each other, longer than needed for a New Year’s kiss. A breathy moan is drawn from their throat after they disconnect, a string of saliva attaching them to one another. Their eyes flutter open. They look up at Steve through their eyelashes, and he through his.
“Happy New Year.” They say, chest heaving slowly. He intakes a breath of air, nodding.
“Happy New Year.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ . ⁺ . ✦ .
The party has died down, people shuffling out in pairs or small groups, either to head home or to another party being thrown. He and his mystery person turned new acquaintance step out into the cool of the night, the chill biting at their skin. They rub their arms, teeth chattering.
“Fuck, it’s freezing.”
“It’s January.” Steve comments, teasing. They glance at him, brow raised in faux annoyance, a small smirk pulling at the corners of lips.
“Bag your face, dude.” They tease.
He chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.” He turns towards them, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. “You have a ride home?”
They pause, lips parted slightly before they look away, shaking their head. “No, I don’t, since my ex brought me here, but I’ll uh, I’ll be fine. I don’t live that far.”
Steve raises a brow, not convinced. He may be oblivious in aplenty of situations, but he’s not stupid. He can always tell when someone is lying; the hesitance in your words and the almost frustrated look on your face doesn’t help your case.
“Bullshit.” He responds. “Seriously, how far do you live from here?”
They look up at him, and sigh, averting their gaze once more.” “Like, a half hour away.” They shrug. “But it’s not a big deal. I’ve walked farther distances than this.”
“In the dead of night?” He retorts. They glance at him from the corner of his eye.
“I’ll be fine.”
He shakes his head. “I can’t in good conscience let you walk home this late.” He says. “It’s not safe.”
“Driving under the influence isn’t safe, either.” They counter.
“I didn’t drive.” Steve tells them. “I live about ten minutes away from here.” He wracks his brain, clicking his tongue. He wasn’t going to let them walk home this late, not in a city like this, where any creep could be lurking around the corner. “How about you crash at my place for the night? I can drop you off in the morning.”
“You don’t have to—”
“What kind of guy would I be if I let you walk a half hour home in the cold?” He cuts in. They sigh heavily, staring up at him with what he thinks is annoyance, but just the slightest hint of appreciation crosses their eyes.
“Okay.” They agree. “For the night.”
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author’s note: very happy to get this out after working on it for over a year. chapters will probably be published irregularly ‘cause i need to rewrite the plot since i started plotting everything out in hawkins when i was planning to set it in chicago, and i’ve been putting this off for a whileee ‘cause of writers block, but even so i wanted to get this out. hope y’all enjoy!!!! let me know if you want to be tagged in later chapters :)
Toby’s obsessive tendencies and need to be overwhelmingly close to you.
He’s so desperate about it that he grows stricter on that fact alone. Grabbing your face roughly like “Look at me.” When he’s fucking you and constantly asking you who’s inside you because he needs to hear you say his name.
It’s so intense it’s almost unbearable. He refuses to let your eyes close and gets meaner if you start going dumb on it. It’s the ego trip mixed with his fixation on keeping you aware of who’s on top of you. It needs to be him. The last thing you moan when you cum needs to be his name. The last thing you see has to be his face.
That’s where his cannibalistic urges resurface- he physically needs to keep a piece of you with him. He’ll bite you hard enough to bleed and tear up licking the wound because he wants it so badly. He’ll cry like he’s the one in pain, matching your whines nearly perfectly.
It’s nearly uncontrollable to him. Toby mimics your sobs and twitches because he wants to feel everything you do, becoming your literal other half. It makes him genuinely sick to imagine you distancing yourself in any way, and all his paranoia hits you full force when you’re intimate during one of his moods.
Most of the time, he’s expressive, squirming and rambling praise. But when he’s already in that head space, he turns into a different person.
He pins your wrists down hard enough to bruise, begging you with so much agony it borders on uncomfortable. His words don’t match his tone, his cries don’t match his actions. Toby’s sobbing while staring directly into your eyes, close to sneering in your face and telling you to that he loves you to the point of mental breakage.
“Say it- say you love me. You mean it, right? Tell me you fucking mean it.”
“It feels like I’m fucking dying when I look at you. I love you so much- I love you so much it’s killing me, angel.”
It helps when you overwhelm him back, though. The only thing that slowly eases him out of that state is your constant reassurance, signs of trust and forcing him to stay present. If you bring his hand up, wrapping it around your throat- “It’s okay. It feels good, keep going.” He’ll whine like a dog and spasm over you.
You swipe the shallow wound on your neck, collecting the blood before slipping your fingers into his mouth. He drools around you and gags trying to take you deeper- going until saliva and scarlet dribble onto your bare chest. His eyes are rolling up, Toby moaning as if he’s huffing gas after withdrawals.
He fucks you harder every time your fingers hit the back of his throat. It’s disgustingly messy, and he’s not even coherent by the end, slurring his words while he stuffs you over and over again. You have bite marks all over your hand because he chews on you like a mutt, using your limbs as a muzzle, then lapping at the cuts with the most pathetic hiccups you’ve ever heard.
And if you bite him back, he cums so hard he blacks out.
Watching across the couch from each other while he’s pumping himself roughly and staring at the way your fingers disappear inside.
You can’t fuck because it was a spur of the moment thing but he gets desperate, ending up hovered over you, jacking off onto your stomach. However, his will power isn’t strong enough to stop there, and he promises he won’t go all the way. Panting out “I’ll j-just- it’ll be fine if I don’t go too deep- I’ll pull out.”
He slips in about half way, thrusting shallowly, when his head rests slumps onto your shoulder. The whole “just the tip” idea doesn’t last long, and before you know it, he’s dropping his hips down. Pelvis flush, he’s slurring apology after apology into your throat, yet his cock is remains buried.
You’re clinging onto his shoulders, and he’s rocking into you so hard the couch creaks. Pre cum mixing with your slick as he fucks you further into the cushions. His pants aren’t even off, belt dangling just below his ass, your underwear tugged to the side. His teeth latch onto your skin when he lets out a throaty moan- but he does stay true to his previous oath.
He hurriedly parts from you, his weight carried by the arm he has braced by your head while he tugs at his length. Toby’s grinding his cock head harshly onto your clit, making your eyes roll when he spills hotly onto your cunt.
Unfortunately his libido is inhumanly high, and he’s sliding back in balls deep with a groan, defeating the purpose of pulling out to begin with-
Summary: Sex pollen galore, but listen: you and Leon both work at the DSO and you hate each other kicking my feet, giggling
Masterlist
Notes: Thank you guys so so much for 5- *checks notes* 600?! How did that happen so fast? I swear I started writing right away.
word count: 4.5k
Warnings: nsfw, sex pollen, non-con if you squint, age gap, younger reader, semi-public sex (sorry Sherry), oral m!receiving, bratty reader, slight daddy kink, orgasm denial at the verge of death, subby Leon?, Leon So much cum Kennedy receiving the blowjob of his life and seeing god holy shit what even is this
K was the eleventh letter of the alphabet. You knew because you had been counting down ever since you had started working with the DSO. K like Kennedy.
“Kennedy, you’re with the junior.” Of course. Every single time you got paired up with fucking Kennedy.
“The junior has a name,” you murmured, shaking your head, shooting a look at the senior agent.
He looked pissed. Like being teamed up with you was the worst thing that could have ever happened to him.
You had no idea what you had done to deserve this level of hatred but ever since you had walked through the doors of the DSO, it burned bright like a fire in him, apparently. He couldn’t even stand looking at you most days. Like now, grinding his teeth, avoiding your gaze at all costs.
You and me both, old man, you thought.
At first you had tried to be friendly with him. He was kind of your superior after all. Not directly, but all junior agents answered to the more experienced ones, especially if they were a founding member.
But lo and behold it became clear that he thought you were less than capable. At first you thought he was nothing but a misogynistic asshole. But then you realised he wasn’t like that with the other female agents. Only you. It seemed personal. Like he thought specifically you had no idea what you were doing, which pissed you off even more.
It hurt a little, if you were being honest. Leon Kennedy was well regarded by everyone. You wanted him to think highly of you, too.
And you weren't a rookie by any means. Actually you were the most competent agent in your field, but something about working on a mission with Agent Kennedy made you feel like you didn't even know how to do the basics. Probably because he never let you do anything on your own and was always there to take the load off your shoulders. As if you were a damsel in distress. You hated it.
It was dangerous as well. You were supposed to cover for him too. But he never let you. You had tried plenty of times.
The mission at hand was retrieving some biochemically altered plants from an underground Umbrella facility. Ones that were suspected to spread airborne pathogens, infecting whoever was unlucky enough to breathe them in.
“Let’s go then,” Kennedy growled, pushing out of his chair, already walking off to the armory without so much as looking at you. You involuntarily sank deeper into your seat. Something about Kennedy made you feel smaller than you actually were, younger too, less experienced. Incompetent.
You drew in a determined breath and followed him down the hallway.
This was the mission to change that. You were going to show him how capable you were, once and for all. And finally Leon Kennedy would tell you that you were doing a good job.
After a whole bunch of briefings because of the high risk of contamination on your mission, you and Kennedy were in the field, Sherry Birkin on your earpiece.
“Sherry, we're in the warehouse.” Kennedy murmured, walking in ahead of you as if you weren’t even there. Why didn‘t he just go on these missions alone? He was so shit with other people, and especially you.
Your determination to prove yourself to him had disappeared as soon as he had once again, come between you and your first target, eliminating it for you. It was an unarmed janitor. As if he could make it any more clear that he thought you had absolutely no idea what you were doing.
Kennedy didn't only walk in ahead of you, no. He held the door open for you as well, as if he suddenly remembered the liability he was constantly dragging around.
“I can open doors myself, you know,” you hissed.
“You’re slow. You need to keep up or you’ll get yourself killed.”
“If you didn't run ahead like that all the time, I wouldn’t have to.” You asshole, you wanted to add but you remembered he was your superior after all. Not your direct one, but still.
“Check the boxes,” Sherry said over your earpiece. “I need to know the serial number to find the one we’re looking for.”
You nodded, grabbing one of them immediately. Too slow, you were going to show him 'too slow'.
Kennedy did a double take. "Don't touch that."
“She said check the boxes. Do you need a hearing aid?“ you hissed, getting out your knife and slipping it under the lid.
“She said she needs the serial number,” he retorted, rushing to your side, his hands closing around yours, halting your movements. You ignored the way your heartbeat kicked up at his touch. Kennedy always made you nervous whenever he was near, that was nothing new.
“If you had listened during the briefings you would know that they printed false serial numbers on the outside to lead us astray,” you spat, struggling against him.
It was pointless. The man was pure muscle, his grip like a vice. But you tried anyway because you were full of rage. He wouldn’t let you do anything. Not even what you were being paid to do. Not even checking a god damn label.
Because of your little tussle with Kennedy your knife got wedged deeper into the box than you intended.
“Let go,” you hissed through gritted teeth.
“You let go, junior,” Kennedy growled in return.
“Whatever you do,” Sherry’s voice sounded over your earpiece. “Do not puncture the—”
Kennedy pushed down on your wrist too hard and you yowled, your hand slipping off the hilt. “You’re breaking my wrist, asshole.”
Without you to counter his movement, Kennedy pried the lid open in one swift motion, a cloud of greenish yellow pollen erupting from the box, coating his entire face. He squeezed his eyes shut.
“—plastic inside. As far as we know, they’re probably trying to contain some sort of highly infectious microspores.”
Under all the pollen you still saw a muscle tick in Kennedy’s jaw. He wiped the dust off his face. “I said don‘t touch it.”
"Sorry," you stammered, cheeks hot, realising you had called a senior agent an asshole to his face. You wanted to disappear off the face of the earth.
Kennedy sneezed. “Sherry, what if we did? And got the plant shit all over our face?” He sneezed again.
“Wash it off with water immediately and check inside the box for the serial number. I‘ll try and find out what it is,” she replied. “But be careful not to get any more of that stuff on you.”
Leon sneezed a third time and fumbled for his canteen, unscrewing the top and dousing himself with water. He shook his head like a dog, droplets flying everywhere.
“I seriously hope for you this isn’t poisonous,” he hissed, taking a sip of water for good measure.
You held up a hand. “If you had just let me do what I needed to do, you wouldn’t be covered in chemically fucked up plant right now,” you snapped, slipping on a pair of gloves and lifting the front of your compression shirt over your nose and mouth, before approaching the box. You had enough of him babysitting you. This was ridiculous.
“Excuse me, what?” He whipped around. “I’m a senior agent, you should listen to me and not think you know better all the time. Look where that got us both.”
You carefully lifted the lid, dodging another whiff of pollen escaping, scanning the plastic inside for the serial number.
He blamed you for this. If you ever had a chance of Kennedy respecting you, there it went. And with his standing in the DSO, you would never be able to get a foot on the ground in the organisation. You’d better update your CV asap. They would absolutely sack you for this.
You closed the lid as soon as you found it, sealing it shut with duct tape to be safe. “Sherry, the serial number is AV-4/B.” You slipped off your gloves and tossed them to the side.
“Alright,” she said. “Are you both contaminated or just Leon?”
“Just Agent Kennedy,” you replied. You would also call him Leon like every other person in the DSO but he insisted on keeping you on a last name basis. So you never dared.
“I’m fine, Sherry,” Kennedy cut in, splashing some more water on his face and rubbing it onto the back of his neck too. You didn’t miss the way he propped himself up against the wall with his hands. “Besides, we have to keep going.”
“Leon, I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sherry said. “We have no idea what this might do to you. It’s too dangerous.”
Agent Kennedy was breathing heavily and you looked him up and down. He didn’t seem changed, but you agreed with Sherry. You stepped closer to him, feeling his forehead.
He flinched like the touch pained him. “Don’t touch me.”
“Holy shit,” you breathed. “Sherry, he’s burning up.”
“Get him somewhere you’re both safe. I’ll try and figure out what he was infected with.”
Kennedy shook his head, little droplets still slipping from his hair.
“You heard her,” you said, grabbing his shoulder, but he shrugged you off.
“I said don’t touch me, junior” he hissed.
You scanned your surroundings for a safe place where you could hunker down until you got the all-clear from your dispatcher.
“In here,” you said, opening the door to the nearest shipping container, trying to push Agent Kennedy inside.
He whimpered at your touch. The invincible agent Kennedy whimpered. This was bad.
“Oh shit,” you hissed, barring the door from the inside.
“No, no, no,” Leon protested. “Don’t lock yourself in here with me.”
You huffed. “Shut up, Leon.” Another inappropriate way of speaking to a senior agent, and first name basis as well. But you were done for anyway. “I’m not a damsel in distress, I know what I’m doing.”
He winced, lowering himself down to sit against the wall. “I never said you didn’t.”
You whipped around to face him. “You didn’t have to, you’re always on my ass, no matter what I do.”
He squeezed his eyes shut, ridding himself of his weapons and harness, tossing them to the side. “Can you blame me? It's a good ass.”
You did a double take. Kennedy was seriously unwell. He coughed, clearly trying to cover up what he had just said.
You crouched down beside him and he flinched again.
“Don’t come so close,” he panted. “I can smell you.”
“What do you mean, you can smell me? I don’t stink, I showered before we went out on this mission,” you said, offended.
Leon’s brow knitted together in helplessness and he leaned his head against the wall. “I’m serious, back off.”
“No way,” you insisted, fumbling for the canteen on your belt, screwing the top off and offering it to him.
He eagerly grabbed it, drinking the water inside, some of it spilling down his prominent Adam's apple as he did.
Despite him being old enough to be your father—and an absolute asshole to be around—you couldn’t deny that Leon Kennedy was an exceptionally handsome man. Hot even.
Right now, literally. He was sweating so much, wet patches had formed all the way down the back of his tactical shirt.
“Take it off,” you ordered, as you began to unlace his boots.
He shook his head, lips pressed together, like he was fighting something invisible inside his own body.
You slipped off both his boots, tossing them to the side, grabbing where his shirt was tucked into his tactical pants. “I said, take it off, Leon. Don’t be so stubborn.”
He struggled against you, trying to get a hold of your hands, but you managed to pull his shirt out of his pants at least, grazing his crotch when he tried to stop you.
“Holy shit,” you breathed.
You had just touched your superior's dick.
Not your direct superior, but that didn’t matter. Because you also hadn’t touched his flaccid dick. No, no. Leon Kennedy was rock hard beneath those tactical pants.
“I’m sorry,” he whined, squirming, desperately trying to get comfortable.
You stared at him. “So when you said you could smell me you meant—”
“Don’t say it,” he pleaded, swallowing hard, his throat bobbing. He looked like he was in agony.
“My vagina,” you concluded.
Leon bit back a moan and you couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “It’s the plant,” he whispered.
“So it’s what? Some kind of super potent viagra?” you said, still tugging at his shirt.
“Stop, what are you doing?” He tried to push away your hand but as soon as your skin touched his, a groan slipped past his lips and he clasped his hands behind his back.
“Leon, I know you’re incapable of listening to me in any situation, but this is serious. You’re burning up and I don’t care that you have a boner right now,” you hissed. “You were infected with some kind of chemically altered shit. Take your fucking shirt off.”
He finally caved, letting you slip his shirt over his head. You drew in a sharp breath. Leon Kennedy shirtless was a sight to see. Taut skin stretching over chiselled abs, beefy pectorals, perfect for propping yourself up on while you were riding him.
You touched your chest, feeling for your heartbeat and breathing. Were you contaminated too?
Oh. No, you were just horny for a man old enough to be your father.
Leon’s nose crinkled and he turned his head away from you. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?” you asked.
“Getting wet, I can smell it.”
You rubbed your forehead. This was going to make for one awkward as hell debrief. “I hope we don’t have to write a report on this,” you murmured and pressed your earpiece, calling for Sherry. No one answered.
You took out your knife and cut off a piece of your shirt, exposing a sliver of your belly.
“What are you doing?” Leon rasped.
“Relax,” you shushed him, folding the fabric carefully and wetting it with water from your canteen. You scooted closer to Leon, dabbing his forehead with your makeshift cloth. His eyes fluttered shut. "I hate to break it to you, but you're in no state right now. You're going to have to let me take over."
“You hate me,” he huffed.
“You hated me first,” you countered, flipping the cloth over so the new, cool side was pressed against his forehead.
“I don’t though,” he rasped. “I think you’re one of the best agents we have.”
You shook your head. “You’re delirious. We’ll talk about that when you’re less animalistic.”
He chuckled and you joined in.
A hand shot forward, grabbing your wrist. “Stop that.”
“What?”
“Laughing. Smiling, everything.” He writhed, palming his cock with his other hand, desperately trying to get comfortable.
Your breath hitched in your throat. It was the plant, you reminded yourself. This wasn’t really him.
“Anytime you laugh in a meeting it’s torture for me,” he whispered.
“Is that why you never talk to me?” you breathed, continuing to dab his forehead, the fact that his hand was still clamped around your wrist not escaping you.
He gave a shy nod.
“So when you say you don’t hate me…” you went on.
“The second you set foot in the DSO headquarters I knew you were going to be my downfall,” he rasped.
You paused, watching the way he was leaning into your touch involuntarily, like he couldn’t help himself. “Did you request to be partnered up with me? Is that why I’m on missions with you every single time?”
He nodded again and you leaned closer to him. “I needed to ensure your safety myself. I don’t trust anyone else with it.”
You bit back another comment about how you didn’t need anyone to take care of you. You had a feeling your capacity of knocking a grown man out cold had nothing to do with his instinct to protect you.
“Leon, if this is some kind of enhanced viagra, I can help you.”
He shook his head, his jaw working. “I would never ask that of you.”
“I’m offering. And in a way this is … necessary,” you whispered. “But if you’d rather do it yourself, I can look the other way and make sure you’re okay while you do it.”
"Fuck no, that’s way worse," he grunted, a rosy blush creeping up on his cheeks. "I'm not gonna let you watch me jack off."
“Alright, it’s settled then,” you said, hands moving down to the buttons of his tactical pants, undoing them one by one. Your mouth watered with anticipation.
You would be lying if you said you had never imagined what Leon S. Kennedy looked like naked. Or what he would be like in bed. Matter of fact, the second you had seen him, walking into the DSO on your very first day you thought he was the most attractive man you had ever set eyes on. The fact that he was so much older, making it all the more forbidden and enticing.
Leon’s hand shot forward again in an attempt to keep your hands from doing what they were doing. “Don’t. This is so unprofessional,” he pleaded and you felt him twitch beneath your palm. He was hanging by a thread.
You sighed. “Yes, it is. Very much so. But do you not want me to?”
He bit his lower lip and his restraint finally snapped. His hands fell down to his sides and he let himself sink lower against the wall, giving in.
Your hands became shaky when you pushed his pants off his hips. What would this be like at the office?
Avoiding each other at all costs? Not looking when the other person spoke? So business as usual.
His cock sprang free and you gasped. It was the most beautiful cock you had ever seen: thick, long and just as veiny as Leon's forearms.
"Oh fuck," you breathed. How was he the one under the spell of those damn plants when you could feel yourself grow wetter by the second?
Leon whimpered again, covering his eyes with his arm. Right. Heightened sense of smell.
You closed your hand around his base, squeezing him. That was already enough to draw a breathy moan out of him.
The great Leon S. Kennedy. Putty in your hands.
You gently spread the pre-cum that had gathered on the tip with your thumb, giving him a tentative pump.
“Oh fuck,” Leon groaned. “I’m so sensitive. It’s not usually like that.”
A grin tugged at your lips. Was he now? No time like the present to take a little revenge for all those times he had made you feel like a child during your missions. It was too easy.
You leaned down, gently running your full lips along the underside of his cock, as you slowly pumped him, gripping him tightly.
His breath hitched and his head shot up, staring at you with half-lidded eyes, brows drawn together. “You don’t have to do that, you can just ah—”
You shut him up with an open mouthed kiss to the tip of his cock and a hand slipped into your hair.
“I always exceed expectations, Agent Kennedy,” you whispered, breath fanning over his most sensitive body part. “If you ever let me do what I’m being paid to do on our missions, you would know that already.”
Leon whimpered and you licked up his entire length in one broad stroke. His hips bucked and the grip on your scalp tightened.
“Please don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,” he whined and you chuckled, looking up at him.
“Oh, I will make it harder,” you promised, closing your lips around his tip, hollowing your cheeks.
Leon growled, drawing in a sharp breath.
You hummed in response, swirling your tongue around his tip, continuing to work him with your hand, as you french-kissed his cock.
“Oh fuck, that feels so good,” Leon breathed, his cock twitching in your mouth. You released him with a lewd popping sound, looking at him with lustful eyes.
He stared at you, mesmerised, his other hand coming down to cup your cheek, running his thumb over your lower lip, all wet and glistening with your saliva and his pre-cum.
You grinned. “Do you want it sloppy or neat?”
He chuckled, dipping his thumb into your mouth for you to suck on. “Has anyone ever said neat?”
You shook your head. “Never happened.”
Leon grabbed a fistful of your hair and pushed you back down on his cock, thrusting his hips up. You eagerly took him deeper into your mouth, saliva running down the sides, gathering at the base of his cock.
“Fuck yes, just like that,” he groaned, hitting the back of your throat. You gagged, but that only meant more saliva to lubricate for a softer glide.
“I’ve been thinking about this in meetings all the fucking time,” he confessed, moaning loudly. “That’s why I couldn’t look at you. Because I kept thinking about what you’d look like choking on my cock.”
A moan racked through you at his confession, sending vibrations through his entire body, making him draw in a sharp breath. You came back up to catch your breath.
“What else were you thinking about?” you asked, puffy lips spreading your saliva all over his length. “Because when I first saw you, I thought about how I wanted you to bend me over your desk and fuck me.”
Leon groaned. “Don’t say that. I’m old enough to be your father.”
You shot him a fiendish grin. “Daddy.”
You sank down on him again.
“Holy shit,” Leon panted, squirming underneath you, cock twitching. You swallowed around him, raking your fingernails over his abs.
“I’m gonna cum,” he moaned, his breathing coming ragged, his fingers in your hair tightening, pulling at it ever so slightly.
Tongue pressed to the underside of his cock, you moved up, sucking him into a vacuum for the grand finale, spit leaking past your lips.
"Oh fuck, just like that." He gritted his teeth, moments from losing it. "Don't st—"
You pulled your mouth off him.
Leon's eyes flew open and he let out most pathetic sound you had ever heard. His hips bucked, cock thrusting up at—nothing.
You chuckled. "You didn't think I'd let you cum that easily, did you?"
He whimpered, brows knitting together. "What are you doing?"
You shook your head. "This whole time, you make me feel like I'm a good for nothing rookie and now you think I'm just gonna suck you off like nothing happened?"
He swallowed, trying to catch his breath. "This is serious, I could die from this."
A smirk tugged at your lips. This was too good.
You shrugged. "See, if I were in your situation, I would ask nicely."
"Junior..."
You clicked your tongue, scoldingly wagging your finger in front of his face.
He let out a laboured breath, fists clenching at his sides. Oh, he hated this. For a moment, you almost backed down.
But you were going to have to look for a new job anyway, so fuck it.
"Say 'please'," you purred, sticking out your tongue, almost close enough to reach, close enough to run over his length, tracing every vein.
"This is very unprofessional," he whined, eyes never leaving you. "We are supposed to work together to ensure mission success."
You raised an eyebrow at him. "Unprofessional? Leon, you have your dick in my face." You licked his tip and he let out another broken moan. He was at the very edge of sanity. "Besides, I feel like it's not me who needs a lesson in cooperating with my assigned mission partner."
He thrust his hips upward again, desperately pushing himself against your face. You leaned back.
"Say it." You leaned in closer, watching his muscles ripple underneath his skin, a sheen glint of sweat coating his entire chest. "Fucking beg for it, Leon."
"Please, okay? Please make me cum, I'm fucking begging you, I can't take this anymore," Leon whined. "Please let me cum in your mouth."
You closed your lips around him, making eye contact as you did. Leon looked like he was about to die. Because of the plant or because of you was hard to tell.
Hollowing your cheeks, you picked up right where you had left off, sucking, licking, lapping up every bit of precum and restraint he had left in him. Every single muscle in his body was taut like a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment.
His lips fell open and he let out a strangled moan, cock twitching inside your mouth. Your hand moved down to cup his balls, tight and ready to release all he had into you and you pushed down on his length, swallowing around him.
He cried out, grabbing the back of your head and pushed himself impossibly deeper into your throat, making your eyes water.
"Oh fuck," he panted and you tried to relax your throat, failing, gagging on his cock.
Leon came with a moan loud enough to echo through the entire shipping container and you desperately tried to come back up for air, thick ropes of white coating your tongue, some of it spilling out the corners of your mouth.
This was sloppy as hell. Cum dripped all over his tactical pants and down your chin as you kept sucking him through his orgasm.
“Fuck, you look so beautiful like that,” Leon breathed, cock twitching, giving you one last bit of cum to lap up. Your eyes fluttered shut at the salty taste. Why did he taste so good?
Despite the state of you, you licked him clean and pressed a parting kiss to his now softened tip. You sat up, both your breaths coming out ragged. Cum trickled down the collar of your compression shirt and tears were beginning to dry on your cheeks.
Oh, this debrief was going to be hell for everyone involved.
Leon’s chest was heaving, as he came down from his high and—his infection.
"I don't know what to say," he panted, staring straight ahead.
"Me neither," you replied, shyly backing away, sinking down against the wall next to him, wiping your mouth and chin with your sleeve. Fuck it. This was a whole mess anyway. And you weren't talking about the shirt.
“I..." Leon started, pausing. "Good job, agent."
You chuckled dryly. What the hell were you thinking? Playing with him like that in a life or death situation? This was bad. What had gotten into you? You could drag your ass straight to HR after this, cum stained shirt and everything.
"I feel like I owe you dinner,” Leon murmured, wrinkling his forehead.
Your eyebrows shot up. “Thanks, but I just ate,” you whispered, mechanically.
You and Kennedy looked at each other from the corner of your eyes, waiting for each other's reaction.
“Agents? Agents are you there?” Sherry’s voice over your earpieces made you both jump. Leon frantically pulled up his pants. “Leon? Are you okay?”
“Sherry,” you rasped. “Please tell me you didn’t hear any of that.”
“Nobody heard a thing,” she replied, voice a little shaky.
Leon grabbed his earpiece. “What do you mean nobody? Sherry, who else is there?”
warnings: somnophilia (it’s in the title), jeff is highkey needy, daddy kink, use of dog/puppy, use of boycunt, praise, unprotected creampie, jeff is a lil mean, 18+ mdni!
word count: 1.5k
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
jeff has been awake by your side for the past hour and a half. he had awaken and fallen back asleep for the better half of the night, too restless to go to bed yet too tired to stay awake, and now it was nearing dawn.
he glances over at you, still sound asleep. he finds it unfair; why is it that you can sleep without a problem and he can’t? granted, you have bouts of insomnia every other week, but his point still stands, in his eyes.
he grumbles, turning onto his side, eyes trailing over your sleeping form. you’re clad in nothing but one of his shirts and a pair of boxers, splayed out on your stomach, arms wrapped around a pillow as you snore softly. jeff bites back a groan; even now, you’re absolutely beautiful.
it doesn’t take much for his cock to twitch to life, sweatpants tightening at the crotch. he reaches his hand inside, wrapping it around the base, lazily stroking himself as he eye-fucks your unconscious form, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. but it isn’t enough, it’s never enough. jeff has always been, and always will be, a greedy man.
he tugs his sweats down just enough for his cock to pop out, hot and throbbing. he grabs your hip and hauls you onto your side, back to him, and yanks your boxers down to your knees. he squeezes your ass, pulling you close to him as he slips his cock between your thighs with a low groan, gritting his teeth. he rocks his hips, nails digging into your flesh as his cock slides between your thighs, precum forming at the tip.
“fuck,” he whispers, breathing shaky, the hand on your hip rocking your ass against him, cock sliding between your folds. “baby…” he presses open mouthed kisses along the side of your neck, squeezing your hip. “wake up, i wanna play.”
he runs his palm from your side to your front, slipping his fingers between your slick folds, finding your bud, running slow circles against it. you moan softly, pressing your thighs together, squeezing his cock, drawing a groan from the pit of his throat. “jeff…” you mumble, eyes peeling open, dazed. he hums, leaning up and pressing a kiss to your temple.
“mornin’, sleeping beauty,” he props himself up on his elbow, reaching his hand around to tilt your chin up, catching your lips in a kiss. your eyes flutter closed, placing a hand on his leg, squeezing gently. he smiles against your lips, thumb stroking your cheek, pulling away to press kisses along your neck. you moan softly, tilting your head to the side, giving him more room. “you’re so pretty when you sleep.” he mutters against your skin, fingers circling your bud. you squeak, back arching against him.
“thank you, gorgeous,” you hum, still groggy with sleep. he runs his hand from your crotch to underneath your shirt, grasping at your chest as he sinks his teeth into the flesh of your neck, sucking a dark hickey into the skin, drawing a moan from the pit of your throat. “oh fuck…”
he licks a stripe up your neck to the shell of your ear, rocking his hips languidly. “such pretty noises,” he groans, “those all for me, sweetheart?”
you grumble, nodding. “mmf, mhmm,” you press against him, rocking your ass against his hips. “always for you, my love.”
his eyes roll to the back of his head, cock twitching. he pulls away from you, flipping you onto your stomach and climbing on top of you. “good,” he drags your hips into the air, wrapping a hand around the base of his cock and dipping the tip inside your hole. “good dog.” he slides inside of you slowly, your boycunt stretching around his cock. you whine, grasping at the bed sheets.
“fuck, daddy…” you moan out as he buries himself to the hilt, nails digging into the flesh of your ass. “s’big.”
“oh, i know, puppy, i know,” he coos, slowly thrusting his hips with a low, gravelly groan. “but you’re such a good dog, i know you can take it.” he pulls you onto his cock in time with his thrusts, leaning over and nipping at your ear. “isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
you whimper, nodding as best as you can, your boycunt clenching around his girth. the only response you can manage is a sleepy, “uh-huh…”
he takes your earlobe between his teeth, tugging on it. “there you go, that’s a good puppy.” he purrs, nails digging into your hips as he fucks you, thrusts slow and hard, hitting that special spot that makes you whine and writhe underneath him. “aww, lookit you,” he coos mockingly, speeding up, pounding away at your boycunt, drawing a loud moan from the pit of your throat, clamping around his girth. “such a slut for your daddy’s cock, you’re already so close to cumming f’me.”
“can’t, fuck—” you whimper as he suddenly slows his thrusts to a halt, spit spilling over your bottom lip onto the pillow, eyelids fluttering as you try your damndest to stay in the present instead of surrendering to the comfort of sleep. “why’d you stop- aah!” you gasp as he runs a hand into your hair, tugging your head back to make you look up at him, a low groan rumbling in his throat at your dazed, glassy eyes.
“can’t what, puppy?” he purrs, licking a stripe up the shell of your ear. “c’mon, sweetheart, use your words.” he presses open mouthed kisses down the side of your neck to your shoulder, nipping at the skin. you whine, almost blubbering as you try to find the words. he hums, “now, dog,” as he slowly starts to pull out, leaving only the tip of his cock inside. “unless you don’t want me to keep you nice and full.” he threatens to pull the rest of his length out, brushing his lips against your ear, voice a whisper, “that what you want, hmm, puppy?”
you shake your head as best as you can in his grip, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. “no, please, daddy, i need—”
“then use your words, sweetheart.” he nips at your earlobe, drawing back to gaze at you, grunting at the near-pathetic expression on your face, teeth digging into his bottom lip.
“i-i,” you swallow, grasping at the bedsheets. “i can’t help it, just love your cock so much.” jeff hums, raising a brow at you.
“what was that, pup?” he squeezes your hip, tip prodding against your hole. “i can’t hear you, sweetheart. speak up.”
you whine, the tears at the corners of your eyes trailing down your cheeks as you looked back at him, bottom lip trembling. “y-your cock, daddy, i love—” you let out a surprised moan before you can get another word out as he pushes back inside of you, his thrusts becoming rough as he crashes his lips against yours, shoving his tongue down your throat. you mewl into his mouth, hand lifting to grasp at the strands of his hair, tugging. he grunts, hips stuttering.
he pulls his mouth from yours, a string of saliva attaching you together. “there you go, good puppy,” he coos, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he wraps an arm around your waist, sitting back on his legs so you’re cradling his lap. he squeezes your hip, kissing along the side of your neck as he moves you up and down on his cock. you whine, shaking your head, melting against him as he bounces you on his length. he unwraps his arm to settle a hand on your stomach, groaning lowly.
“oh, honey,” he breathes, grabbing your hand and pressing it to your stomach. you moan as you feel the bulge, boycunt clamping around his cock. “feel that, puppy? can you feel daddy’s love deep inside you?”
he doesn’t let you answer as he lifts you off of his cock, tossing you onto your back and spreading your thighs apart before sliding back inside. his hips stutter with each rough thrust, nails digging into the flesh of your thighs. he’s close, so, so close. you whine, pleading, “inside, please daddy, want it inside.”
he moans, leaning forward, and burying his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder, biting down harshly. you yelp, clenching around him as your orgasm washes over you. he thrusts just a few more times before burying himself to the hilt, painting your walls white with his cum.
“oh fuck, daddy—” you whine, hands finding his back and clawing at him, thighs shaking. “thank you, thank you, thank you.” he groans, hands sliding from your thighs to your waist, languidly rocking his hips, pushing more inside.
“anything for my sweet puppy.” he licks the bite mark, pressing a chaste kiss to it before lifting his head and crashing his lips against yours. you moan, melting into him as your eyes flutter closed, running your hands to his shoulders.
reluctantly, he pulls out, his cum dripping out of you. lying on his side, he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, nestling his chin atop your head. “did such a good job, sweetheart.” he murmurs, yet he gets no response. pulling back slightly, he sees that you’re fast asleep, having been worn out. he chuckles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “g’night, sleepyhead.”
⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅
author’s note: i hope y’all enjoyed! it’s relatively short but i enjoyed writing it nonetheless. if you have any requests, my inbox is open! i’ll be sure to get to them asap
